


icy blue; warm.

by electricshoop



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Anime), Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Pocket Monsters: X & Y | Pokemon X & Y Versions
Genre: (Written by a trans author), Anyway Wulfric is a silver fox and Can Get It; don't @ me, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Sycamore/Lysandre mentioned quite a few times, Trans Sycamore, Trans Wulfric, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:35:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28346232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/electricshoop/pseuds/electricshoop
Summary: If Sycamore thought about it a little more in-depth, he might come to the conclusion that so readily hooking up with a person he's here to interview for research-purposes might indeed just be a poor attempt at distracting himself from whatever severe problem Lysandre is insistently not talking about. Luckily for him, every good scientist knows when to just shut his own head off and refrain from self-reflection.(Besides, Wulfric is vocal about all the things Sycamore very much likes to hear, so really, how could he resist.)
Relationships: Platane-hakase | Professor Augustine Sycamore/Urup | Wulfric
Kudos: 3





	icy blue; warm.

**Author's Note:**

> Was contemplating Not posting this here, then I was contemplating posting this here anonymously, and then I remembered cringe culture is fucking dead, yeet! (I did Not proofread this.)
> 
> I *could* say something like "Way more inspired by my rewatch of the XY&Z anime than the games" now, but I'll be honest - it's mainly inspired by exchanged headcanons and "what if"s. This fic literally has a target audience of two, and I'm very much one of them. 
> 
> Also, trans-headcanon-wise, 'cause I don't state it outright: Both have had top surgery and Wulfric has had bottom surgery, too. Words used for trans male anatomy don't include any terminology commonly associated with cis women.
> 
> (Also-also, I haven't actually rewatched the Wulfric episodes yet, so if you read this and think he's completely OOC: Yes, you're right.)

When his assistant retires to her room provided by the Pokémon Center, Sycamore is briefly tempted to do the same – the journey was long, it's getting late, and the next day promises to be a busy one. But then he finds himself walking the entire length of his room in only three, four quick steps, so he leaves again, suitcase carelessly shoved into the corner next to the bed.

He doesn't mind the room being small. In fact, the simplicity is rather comforting. Last time he was in a proper hotel, Lysandre had been with him, and he'd insisted on paying and had, of course, picked the expensive one, tucked between a high-end boutique and an even higher-end restaurant in Coumarine City. The bathroom had had a jacuzzi and the king-sized bed a massage setting, and it had all been rather overwhelming. (The way this memory has stuck inside his head might at least partially be influenced by the things they'd done  _ on _ said bed, too, but he frankly isn't sure.)

Either way, it  _ had  _ been spacious and he  _ had _ appreciated  _ that _ , and Sycamore knows that he should probably just get rid of his seemingly incurable habit of pacing around whenever he's too hyped up to sit still, but that's not going to happen tonight, so– 

Well. So, stepping back out it is, then.

For a while, his presence outside is all there is: The crunching sound of his footsteps on the snow-covered ground, his breath; made visible by the biting cold, the slightly numb feeling in the tips of his fingers that grows sharper and sharper the longer he spends walking. 

His head is blissfully quiet; perfectly fitted into his surroundings like that. There's no worry about his work, about the next day, even though the excitement of it all is what's keeping him up. He allows himself to relax into the safety of the night and its silence, and into his own energy, and–

–and then, suddenly: "Well, that's the third time you've walked past here, right? Don't tell me you managed to get yourself lost?"

The voice (not loud exactly, but booming, and deep; demanding immediate attention) shatters the peaceful quiet almost violently, and Sycamore freezes. When he turns, he notices that he's just passed the Snowbelle City Gym. For the third time, apparently. The door is open now, and stood in front of it is an iceberg of a man; tall, broad-shouldered, all muscular angles and immaculate white hair.

Sycamore stares, and then realises that he's being rude.

"Oh!" he says and laughs (a little awkwardly,) and then he steps forward (a little too abruptly,) holding out his hand. "I was just admiring how peaceful the night is, here," he says. "It's been a while since I've last visited, and Lumiose is – ah, I live in Lumiose City – it's always bright out, even at night, so…" He realises he's still holding out his hand, and that he's rambling. "I'm sorry, I'm–"

He doesn't get to finish his sentence. The other man takes a step towards him and grips his hand tightly with his own, shaking it. (His grip is firm, and his hand, impossibly warm, despite the icy temperatures Sycamore knows this Gym is famous for. (He stares at their hands, until the other pulls back.))

"Your reputation precedes you, right? You are Professor Augustine Sycamore, of course! You're doing splendid work, I hear."

Sycamore hesitates for a moment (the mention of his  _ reputation _ , by now, always gives him a split-second of worry,) but the other smiles at him, expression just as warm as his hand, and he can't help but return it. "That's right." He nods. "And you must be Snowbelle City's Gym leader, correct?"

A curt nod, and yet another smile. "Wulfric's the name."

*

"You seem to be inappropriately dressed, right?"

Sycamore looks down at himself, even though there's really no need to. Wulfric is right – the light jacket, the lab coat and his shirt are nowhere near suited for this city, clearly – and he himself had only noticed when he'd started shivering, standing still instead of walking. This was when Wulfric had offered to continue their conversation somewhere inside. Snowbelle isn't a big city; it's nothing compared to Lumiose or Coumarine, and so they hadn't had many options. One restaurant, situated at the very edge of the city, next to the woods. They're sharing a table, now, and if Wulfric was at all surprised by Sycamore's black coffee order despite the late hour, he politely didn't let it show.

"A little, perhaps," he admits with a smile. "I tend to underestimate the weather conditions of other cities."

Wulfric leans forward, muscular forearms braced against the tabletop. "You should pay more attention to this next time, right? Although this–" and here he makes a small but all-encompassing gesture with his right index finger "–is a very good look on you. Tell me, what  _ is _ a scientist as pretty as you doing in this frosty corner of Kalos?"

Sycamore blinks a little, then quickly looks down at this coffee. (Out of the corner of his eyes, though, he keeps glancing at Wulfric's hands; his big, warm hands, softer than he'd expected an Ice Gym leader's to be–) His face is burning and without a doubt deep red. Just to keep his hands occupied, he lifts the cup and takes a sip before he starts talking about his research and about how he's looking into mega evolution from different angles. 

Wulfric is an impressively patient listener – he doesn't interrupt him once, he asks follow-up questions–

And it takes Sycamore an embarrassing amount of time, really, to realise that perhaps his calling him pretty, paired with the hand that was, at some point, placed on his arm (he doesn't remember when or how it got there) means something. Something more than just courteous interest in his professional life.

He stops talking in the middle of a sentence, stares down at Wulfric's hand, and suddenly its warmth seems to radiate off it with more strength, suddenly it feels like it's about to burn him.

"Oh," he says. 

When he lifts his head to meet the Gym leader's eyes, Wulfric raises an eyebrow. He must realise what exactly happened – what suddenly occurred to Sycamore – because he brushes his fingers against Sycamore's arm, then tightens his hand around it ever so slightly.

_ (So much for whatever reputation precedes me, _ Sycamore thinks, but it's easy to push the thought away, just easy enough to do so before it can get uncomfortable. And maybe, just maybe, a tiny voice whispers, that's not what Wulfric meant and he genuinely just decided to flirt with him.)

"I," he says, then clears his throat. "I am usually better at realising when someone is trying to flirt with me."

Amusement makes Wulfric's eyes shine. Sycamore notices just how blue they are. Blue as ice, but full of warmth, just like his hands, just like his smile.

_ (And Gods, he's hot.  _ Sycamore briefly wonders what he looks like underneath that white tank top.)

"Better late than never, right?" Wulfric finally replies and leans back with a laugh. Sycamore answers with a smile on his own, and then tells him, casually, that his room in the Pokémon Center is waiting for him.

*

Wulfric's hand never once leaves him while they walk over. First, it's placed on his shoulder, the touch feather-light and barely there, then, on the stairs up to the rooms of the Pokémon Center, it gradually travels lower, until it's an almost grounding pressure at the small of his back. As soon as the door to his room is open, Sycamore pulls Wulfric through so that he can slam it shut again.

This, he knows. This, he's good at. There's few things he truly excels at, but this is one of them. He doesn't hesitate when he grabs for Wulfric's jacket to pull him into a kiss, and he doesn't hesitate when he pushes it, conveniently left open, over the other man's broad shoulders. It lands on the floor almost soundlessly.

Wulfric reciprocates the kiss for another few moments, just as passionately, just as deeply, and then chuckles against his lips. A second later, Sycamore finds himself maneuvered against the door, the door handle digging into his back. His eyes flutter open, and he finds Wulfric already staring right back. Sycamore reaches out, lets both of his hands wander over whatever part of Wulfric's body he can reach – his arms, his shoulders– And through it all, he keeps looking into his eyes. Ice blue, warm. Half a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, not leaving his expression even as he almost casually gathers Sycamore's wrists in a single one of his hands. 

"Eager, aren't we?" His voice is a low murmur, a register that does  _ something  _ to Sycamore. He tugs against Wulfric's grip, half-heartedly at first, then in earnest when his efforts are rewarded with a full-on smirk – and Wulfric slowly lifting his arm to pin Sycamore's wrists against the door above his head. Even with more force applied, though, he doesn't manage to free himself. It probably shouldn't surprise him, considering Wulfric's build, but the sudden realisation strikes him hard anyway. He swallows, throat suddenly dry, and shivers – nothing to do with the temperature, this time. The thought that he wouldn't be able to step away even if he wanted makes his knees feel weak. 

Wulfric seems to know, or sense something, because he lifts an eyebrow, just like he did back at the restaurant. A good look on him, admittedly. With a single step, he's almost pressed against Sycamore's chest. "Before we continue this," he says, still barely more than a murmur, "I'd like you to tell me what exactly you want. Because I know what  _ I _ want."

Suddenly, the eye contact feels too intense, is too much, so Sycamore closes his eyes. "You can do whatever you want," he responds, not quite as smoothly as he'd intended; his voice is too shaky for that. 

Usually, that's the correct response – he's  _ good _ at this. It tends to earn him approving looks, a bitten lip here, a simple smirk and a nod there. But it is, apparently, not what Wulfric wanted to hear: The grip around his wrists tightens ever so slightly. A firm, thick leg finds its way between Sycamore's, the idea of pressure, and lips against his ear. "No, no, that's not how we are doing this, right? Tell me what you want, dear professor."

Something in his stomach clenches, hot and cold at the same time; arousal pooling together with discomfort.

"I, ah," he says, and then, "don't," and then nothing.

The hint of a kiss just below his left ear. "If you don't know, let me tell you what  _ I _ want." Another kiss, a little lower, closer to his neck. "I would love to strip you naked, hold you pinned to this door and suck you off like this."

Sycamore is used to bluntness in theory, but he's spent most of his time with Lysandre lately, and as much as he adores the man, and as much as he's capable of whispering the filthiest things Sycamore has ever heard, he just won't stop wrapping them up in flowery metaphors, so for a moment, after hearing this, he almost forgets to breathe. 

Once he remembers, the only thing he can think of saying is, "I'm trans," and his voice is very damn near breathless, and before he can worry about Wulfric's reaction, the leg between his is pressed forward and  _ up _ , and it's over his own small gasp that he hears the calm response, "We've got something in common then, and my point still stands, pretty boy."

It takes him another second or two to process this and to realise that he is clearly still supposed to answer, so through the haze that is his thoughts  _ (he's not complaining, but this wasn't supposed to go like this;  _ he's  _ the one that's good at this)  _ he manages, "I, yes, that's, I would like that," and then, when this is obviously not enough, "I, I want that. I want you to hold me flush against this door and suck me off."

The tight knot in his stomach and the dissonant experience of analysing and voicing what he wants is all worth it for the experience of quickly being stripped off his jacket, lab coat and shirt, and the sight of Wulfric dropping to his knees in front of him. 

"Wasn't so hard, was it? Good boy."

Sycamore– 

Sycamore surprises himself with his reaction. Wulfric's leg is gone from in between his, he's not even being  _ touched _ , but he couldn't pretend the next breath that leaves his mouth isn't a not-quite-suppressed whine even if he wanted, and he shivers almost violently. 

_ Good boy.  _

Oh. Oh, okay.

That's… 

Good. That's good.

Wulfric looks at him, damningly perceptive, with these ice blue, warm eyes, and notices that Sycamore's hands, no longer pinned to the door, now rest uselessly at his sides; he has no idea what to do with them. "Keep your hands over your head, right?" he says, voice level, and then adds a slow, measured, "Be a good boy." 

The words send tiny electric shivers down his spine.  _ Fuck.  _ He'd do just about anything to have that leg back between his for just the tiniest bit of friction right now. 

Sycamore closes his eyes and prays to whatever God is listening for– he doesn't actually know what. In the end, he does what he is told, because this is, again, something he's good at. Following orders, he can do. He lifts his hands over his head and keeps them pressed against the door. With his eyes closed, he can almost imagine the phantom pressure of Wulfric's firm grasp around them still being there. 

"Tell me how you like to be touched." Wulfric's voice in his ears, and his hands at his trousers, opening and tugging and then cool air against his naked legs, and Wulfric's fingers against his skin, feather-light touches, leaving goosebumps in their wake, and–

–and he has no idea if he'll manage to answer. Nobody ever asked him this. Nodding when being asked "Is this okay" is much, much easier; it doesn't presume self-reflection or physical awareness on his side. He opens his mouth, then closes it again, and–

"Take your time, pretty thing."

–and he takes a shuddering breath. 

_ Good boy. _

_ Pretty thing. _

He'd like to hear this again, he thinks, and then thinks, maybe he can look at this as a scientific exploration, then. Objective: Finding the data that will lead to the desired result.

He takes a few deep breaths, calmed by the fact that Wulfric seems to have meant it, that sentence about taking his time; he seems perfectly content on the floor in front of him, pressing a few stray kisses to his knees every now and then.

He thinks of Lysandre; can't help it. Lysandre, between his legs on an expensive hotel bed; Lysandre, lips wet with spit and arousal; Lysandre, licking his fingers clean without taking his eyes off him– 

(He probably shouldn't be thinking of him right now.)

((His shorts clings to him, wet and sticky.))

He finds his voice, then. It's shaky, just as shaky as his breathing, but even after just a few words, he's rewarded with Wulfric's nails scraping over the back of his thighs, and another kiss, placed more towards the inside, and higher. 

"I like the thought of your mouth on me," Sycamore gets out, irrationally grateful that his eyes are closed. It's easier, speaking into darkness. "Your lips against me, your tongue. Your– Your fingers, I. You can fuck me with them, if you want. I'd like that, too."

An appreciative hum answers him, more of a vibration against his leg than something audible. Another kiss, "I very much like the sound of that." A smirk, then, "So good for me, aren't you, telling me what you want."

Sycamore quickly bites down on his lip (dull, far-away pain answers; he's been chewing on it all the way through the train ride while going over his notes,) but it doesn't quite stop another whine escaping. It would be much easier to be embarrassed about it if Wulfric didn't immediately respond by hooking his fingers into his boxers to pull them down.

Sycamore doesn't get any time to brace himself – Wulfric's mouth is on him immediately, and his hands against his hips, holding him pinned to the door, just like he'd promised.

He briefly thinks about whether he should open his eyes, wonders if Wulfric, were he to look up, would be put off by his not looking, and then the Gym leader's thumbs dig into his skin just slightly, and he flicks his tongue against Sycamore's dick, and then all thoughts are gone – he keeps his eyes closed.

The sensations then are a blur of Wulfric's tongue and Wulfric's mouth and Wulfric, sucking and licking, and  _ Wulfric, _ and the hint of  _ teeth,  _ (Lysandre is fond of using his teeth as well, and he tries to push the thought away–)

Sycamore is thankful for the firm hands against his hips, because his legs are shaking ever so slightly, and his knees feel like they'd be too weak to support his weight without assistance, and then there's two thick fingers, sliding into him no resistance whatsoever, because he's so turned on he's almost dripping, and perhaps he'd find it in him to be embarrassed for  _ that, _ but Wulfric makes an appreciative sound against him and crooks his fingers just  _ so, _ and Sycamore's hands twitch and he has to put his entire mind to the task of keeping them above his head instead of burying them in Wulfric's hair. It takes him seconds to notice he's tasting blood because he's biting down on his lip again, hard.

Time simply stops; he has no idea how many minutes pass; usually he hears the quiet ticking of his watch in any situation, but all there is right now is the sound of his own gasping breaths, the movement of slick fingers, and  _ Wulfric, _ again, hot breath against his cock and then this wonderful tongue, warm and smooth, and– And then everything is hot-white bliss for a moment, and he digs his nails into his hands to stop himself from pulling Wulfric closer by his perfectly styled hair.

He is still catching his breath when Wulfric lightly taps his thigh. Sycamore finally opens his eyes again and realises in a slight haze that he's clamped his legs around the other man's head, and that his throat is so dry that he must have made  _ some _ noise, even if he doesn't remember right now. He needs a moment to get his bearings, to control his movements, to let go. Wulfric sits back with a content grin and wipes his mouth with the back of his left hand.

"Well," he says and gets up, still very, very close to him. "That was lovely, right?"

Sycamore doesn't answer verbally, instead he reaches out to grab Wulfric's wrist. He brings his hand to his face and sucks the two fingers into his mouth, sucking on them immediately, running his tongue along them until they're clean. He (briefly thinks of Lysandre and) doesn't take his eyes off Wulfric.

The Gym leader's eyes widen a little; surprised and something else. Pleased. Intrigued. There's fire in these ice blue eyes now, and Sycamore returns his grin. Back on familiar terrain – he drags the tip of his tongue over the tips of Wulfric's fingers one last time before he pulls back, only to swiftly reach out to make quick work of the other's clothes.

He gets to see then, finally, what's underneath that tank top, and while lets himself be guided towards the bed, he takes a few precious seconds to admire the other's body; the soft belly, the hairy chest, all the muscle underneath the fat. He stops when Wulfric's legs hit the edge of the bed, and leans in for another kiss, fierce and passionately. His raw lower lip stings with the sensation, but Wulfric is a good kisser, and the swooping feeling in his stomach is way more prominent. 

Sycamore drags his hands up his arms until they come to rest against Wulfric's shoulders, and he puts light pressure on them, intending to shove him back onto the bed. Wulfric however seems dead-set on being the one in charge – which he'd never object to – and making this about Sycamore rather than himself – which he'd… never have expected, mainly. Wulfric grabs his arm and pulls, and then he's the one being pushed back onto the bed, with Wulfric quickly following, straddling him with his legs to either side of his body above him, hands all over him,  _ stroking scratching thumbs dragging over his nipples briefly brushing against the near completely faded scars back to gentle pets– _

That voice back to just a murmur. "What now, pretty boy?" 

Sycamore exhales shakily. He stares at Wulfric, stares into these ice blue eyes. "What do you want?" he asks back instead of answering. 

The grin is back on Wulfric's face in an instant, and he leans down for a kiss that seems to stretch into eternity, with the hint of tongue and teeth, and when he pulls back briefly, the tingling sensation in his lips is a pleasant one – and one he barely gets to focus on before the Gym leader's lips are pressed to his neck. He nibbles his way up to Sycamore's ear. 

"I would love nothing more than to fuck you now…" 

(Sycamore lifts his hands to grab Wulfric's strong arms, holds onto them, and entirely without thinking lifts his hips to grind up into him, only to be pushed back down by a firm, warm hand.) 

"...until you can't help but stop biting your lip and let me hear some more of these beautiful sounds you make." 

(Sycamore digs his nails into Wulfric's arms, then lets go to almost embarrassingly clumsily fumble at his trousers in an attempt to get them open.)

"May I take that as a yes, then?" 

Sycamore nods, almost frantically. "Yes," he says, and then, again,  _ "yes." _

He almost regrets it when it results in Wulfric sitting back up, but the emotion is there and gone when the other man quickly works himself out of his remaining clothes. 

He's pretty sure he could spend hours staring, but doesn't get this chance – Wulfric leans back down, one hand between his own legs, the other tailing a path over Sycamore's chest that is followed by kisses (the hint of tongue, the hint of teeth.)

He immediately tastes blood again when Wulfric sucks a mark into his chest and he, in return, bites back down on his lip. 

(And he can't wait for Lysandre to see what–) 

_ "Oh-!"  _

He's being dragged back into the here and now almost violently, and one of his hands buries itself in Wulfric's hair almost without conscious input when Wulfric closes his lips around one of his nipples and scrapes his teeth against it. 

A second later, all contact is gone again, and Wulfric looks down on him. Sycamore drops his hand and wishes it was still in the other's hair, mussing it up even more until it's just as unkempt as his own, and Wulfric is hard now, and–

"How do you want me to take you, then, my good professor?" 

He thinks about it for a moment,  _ really _ thinks about it, as he's reasonably certain now that he wouldn't get away with a "however you want me". He is close to just turning around, offering himself kneeling, then thinks again.

(Lysandre loves him like this, and Sycamore thinks it might be just a little too easy to forget who he's with right now in that position, not looking at Wulfric, and then he feels a little sick, and then he quickly pushes all that away.)

"Like this," he instead says, and Wulfric nods.

"Be a good boy and spread your legs for me then, right?"

_ Good boy, _ again. Sycamore has been called many things, has been called many things in bed (or against walls, or doors, or kneeling on the floor–) but never this.

Goosebumps, spreading out on his arms, and he shivers again and quickly does as he is told.

_ "Very  _ good."

He's being rewarded with another kiss, and after a moment, he dares to bury his hand in Wulfric's hair again. It's soft underneath his fingertips, and for a moment, Sycamore just lets a few stray strands slide through his fingers – until Wulfric grabs one of his legs to push it up and towards him. He grinds against Sycamore briefly, then slides his cock into him without further hesitation. Sycamore tightens his grip again, then.

This time, he doesn't close his eyes, instead he stares at Wulfric, his free hand going from the sheets he's been holding onto to whatever part of the other man he can reach; holding onto his shoulder, then running it over his back, scraping his nails back up, digging his fingers into his arm–

He'd almost expected Wulfric to be gentle to the point of delicacy, but, no; he fucks him like he  _ means _ it, he fucks him like he'd been expected to get fucked solely going off Wulfric's looks. His movements are deliberate, measured almost, but they're  _ quick _ and  _ hard,  _ and Sycamore is sure that the tight grip Wulfric maintains on his thigh will leave him with bruises in the morning.  _ (Good. Good, that's what he wants; he wants something to remember this by (something to show.)) _

Wulfric makes good on his promise, as well: Without thinking, he'd bitten down on his lip again, but the relentless pace in which Wulfric fucks into him has him gasping for air before long. He tries to stifle the moan that follows with a kiss, but Wulfric turns his head away to press his lips against Sycamore's neck instead. He can feel the grin against his skin.

His own moans are soon mingled with Wulfric's own quiet, breathless gasps, and the sound of their bodies, moving together, Sycamore trying his best to support the thrusts, the rhythm. Everything else falls away for long, long moments, everything else feels utterly irrelevant, and it's so easy to forget his surrounds, to concentrate only on these sound and the movements and Wulfric's lips against his skin, kissing and sucking and gasping–

–and Wulfric's thumb against his own lips, then. Sycamore acts without thinking, opens his mouth, sweeps his tongue over the other man's thumb, then closes his lips around it and sucks–

–and then Wulfric pulls his hand away, and a second later, Sycamore feels the spit-slick finger against his dick, delicious pressure and then a firm-gentle rubbing motion, and– 

–and this goes on, and the next thing he knows is that at some point, he's started begging.

He can't bring himself to be embarrassed, not now, not after Wulfric called the sounds he makes  _ beautiful, _ not with that thumb against his dick and Wulfric's cock inside of him, not with the sensation of  _ all of it,  _ and he doesn't know what he's begging  _ for, _ just hears his own voice, interspersed with moans and gasps and those little whines,  _ Please, please, please, you– you're marvellous, please– please–  _

(his own voice and the sound of his heart hammering and blood rushing inside his ears are loud, but they don't drown out Wulfric's words in return (as if directly answering to his begging, as if divine attention in response to prayer))

_ –Look at you, so good for me, aren't you; good boy; pretty boy; you look so good like this, so pretty; good boy–  _

Wulfric doesn't stop moving, doesn't ease the pressure of his thumb against Sycamore's cock, and he doesn't stop talking, not once, not even as Sycamore digs his nails into his shoulder and tugs on his hair, shivering and clenching around him; he presses kisses to the soft spot just below his ear and talks him through his orgasm,  _ such a good boy, beautiful, so good. _

His hands are shaky when he eventually takes them off Wulfric, and his breathing is uneven, still. He lets himself be pulled upright and into a kiss, soft this time, gentle. Wulfric smiles against his lips. "You should be more vocal during this. It's  _ your voice _ that's marvellous, right?"

This, for some reason, is what gets him; this, for some reason, is embarrassing – Sycamore can feel the heat shooting into his face and turns his head away, but he can feel a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

(Lysandre says the same; he's very good at pushing him to speak whenever he should be too busy fucking him to think. (Lysandre loves when Sycamore calls him marvellous.))

Sycamore doesn't know if Wulfric has come, but if he hasn't, he doesn't seem to mind. He keeps holding him, keeps pressing lazy, soft kisses against Sycamore's neck, his throat, his lips, until he eventually leans back and looks at him, warm, ice blue eyes catching his own.

"What a pleasant way of getting to know Kalos's esteemed Pokémon professor," he says.

Sycamore looks at him for a moment and then laughs, and responds with a nod. "Likewise," he says, and leans in for another kiss, as if to emphasise his words.

*

Wulfric takes a shower, and then very politely tells him goodnight, and Sycamore is both a little disappointed and relieved when he adds that he should look after his pokémon before he retires for the night, and leaves.

Left alone again, he takes a few deep breaths, glances at the tangled sheets, then, after taking a shower himself, at the marks on his chest and his hips. The first thing he does once he's sat on the bed again, is the grab for his Holo Caster. 

There's two missed calls, and a recorded holo message. All from Lysandre.

He lies back, pulls the covers up and stares at the screen for a few moments before he plays it.

Lysandre's brows are furrowed. Worry, perhaps, or confusion. All  _ I hope you are well _ and  _ I went by the research lab and your home, but–  _ and  _ You don't usually leave without letting me know _ and  _ I hope to see you again soon. _

Sycamore rubs a hand over his face. Tries to make sense of Lysandre's expression in a way that feels conflusive. Worry? Confusion? Neither, or both, and-slash-or something else entirely. He's been behaving… oddly, lately. Had seemed far away and deep in thought whenever they'd spent time together. Had talked about his ancient ancestors a whole lot. And had refused to talk whenever Sycamore had asked if everything was alright. He  _ knows _ something is off. He's not stupid. But he can't very well force Lysandre to talk about it.

It's… a little bit infuriating. 

(Which, perhaps, it shouldn't be, because Gods know Sycamore is no stranger to quiet distress, nor any good at voicing his troubles, but… still. Still.)

He sighs quietly and checks the time. Too late for a call, he decides, and opens the recording function instead. "Lysandre, I just got your message. I am sorry," he says, looking into the camera. "I am in Snowbelle City for research purposes for the next few days. I met the Gym leader and was…" And here he hesitates. (And here he hesitates, because he knows, hopes, that Lysandre will interpret the brief silence correctly; read just the right thing into it. (They're not exclusive, never have been, but he knows, hopes, that it will bother him anyway.)) "...busy. I will call you tomorrow."

He finishes recording and sends the message and tries to forget that this is, very obviously, not the best way to deal with… whatever it is that's going on between them right now.

(It's not as easy to fall asleep as he'd hoped, thinking about Wulfric and the warmth in his eyes.)

**Author's Note:**

> They'll probably have to sit in the same room again the next day, Sycamore's assistant next to him, smiling politely while talking shop.
> 
> I am [on tumblr](https://electricshoop.tumblr.com), my blog right now is 50% Pokémon, 40% NBC Hannibal, and 10% personal rambling, talk about whiplash. Anyway, happy Boxing Day.


End file.
